


Dealing With The Monster

by RedfieldandNivans



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Chris makes it better, Coping with the C-Virus, Inner Rage Issues, M/M, One-Shot, Post RE6, Some Sexy Time, Training Session
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedfieldandNivans/pseuds/RedfieldandNivans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Piers Nivans deals with the lasting effects of the c-virus after being released from the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dealing With The Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the present tense writing in this one. I'm stretching my legs as a writer and trying out a few new styles as I go. Enjoy the Nivanfield cuteness at the end. ;)

He hates this part. Channeling the rage. 

_Use it,_ they tell him, _Focus on your anger and use it to fight because out there it’s eliminate the threat or be eliminated. There is no middle ground._

They’ve always trained soldiers this way, he knows. It’s a means of coping with the act of killing to survive. This type of advanced training is designed to fortify the mind against the trauma of taking a life. Of choosing one life over another…

He hated this exercise back in the day too. And that was before he had this _thing_ inside his body. Before he had an abundance of rage to call upon.

It’s never been this easy to let go before. He knows he had a good hold of himself and his actions both on and off duty before he became infected. No. Before I _infected myself,_ he recalls bitterly. There is a mutant virus running rampant in his veins and it’s there because _he_ put it there. It’s a decision he regrets when Chris isn’t around to remind him why he did it. 

He hits the punching bag once. Hard; harder than anyone else in the room. The full length of the brown leather sack swings backward with enough force to rattle the chains holding it. It’s enough to send chips of the ceiling to the blue mat at his feet. He’s lucky the mirror is far enough away to not shatter. Piers catches the bag as it swings back. Everyone is looking at him now. He can feel their concern through the silence. They’re looking at his arm. The one he conceals with black fabric wrap from his knuckles to his shoulder. It’s no bigger than it was, his arm. So there’s no way to see the difference Piers feels. But they can see his fingers are not right. They’re pink with new scar tissue. For all they know the Lieutenant came back from a brutal tour with third degree burns and some serious anger issues. _This soldier is damaged,_ he imagines their ill-informed conclusions must sound like. They aren’t wrong. 

The instructor pretends to be pleased by his show of power. He barks orders at the rest of the men to match Nivans’ level of control. _Control._ Piers snorts at that. The rage they’re so eager to tap into is always just below the surface for him now. Raw feeling takes over and it clouds his judgment and makes him both nervous and anxious to hurt something.

He hasn’t hurt anyone. Not yet. But he doesn’t trust himself. He hasn’t truly been able to let his guard down since he was released from the base hospital a month ago. The doctors don’t know as much as they think they do and Piers isn’t going to announce that he’s a liability despite his “remarkable recovery”. He plays along with their weekly theories and sits still while they stick him with the latest experimental “vaccine” like a good soldier because he wants his freedom back. He wants to go back out there. It scares him shitless, but he knows where he belongs. 

He’s not stupid. He anticipated side effects. But he also expected to die a martyr for the greater good, not live to suffer the consequences of a prolonged infection. The rage he lives with now blames Chris for that. It blames the Captain for saving him when he should have let him go. Piers fights against those feelings, swallowing them down because he can’t go down that road when he’s raging like this.

The virus tingles deep in his right arm and he flexes his damaged fingers, feeling the familiar twinge of bioelectricity build beneath the skin. He wishes he could let it loose. It itches. Sometimes it burns and throbs, but mostly it just feeds him aggression. He hits the bag again, pretending to beat the monster inside into submission. The force sends the bag swinging toward the mirror. He follows it around, light on his feet and heavy on his throws. The instructor yells at him to focus. Piers grits his teeth, glad the man is a distance away, and slams his wrapped knuckles low into the leather as though it were an opponent’s ribcage.

The seam of the bag begins to split. Piers roars and slams into it again with his left arm. He can feel the difference in power from one side to the other. His bandaged arm puts his hard-earned muscle mass to shame. That pisses him off too. He can’t help but feel the virus has shown him up: Proven to him his body is weak without it’s presence. He didn’t sign up for feeling inadequate in his own skin and he hits the bag again and again, wishing he could beat this thing.

Externally his infected arm looks no different in size. Inside it’s buzzing with untapped energy and a power he’s afraid to explore. A seam gives way on the bag and Piers ignores the spill as he continues to barrage it with a series of quick jabs, hard crosses and brutal uppercuts. The other soldiers are staring again. It’s hard not to when someone is this into a session. It’s not everyday they see one of their own potentially knock a full size bag from it’s anchor.

Piers ignores his audience and moves through the burning in his lungs and shoulders, slamming into the leaking bag over and over sinking everything he has into his attacks. He will wear out eventually, he knows. It’s why he continues to come here day after day hoping to expel the aggression that builds. It’s not the first time he’s used a bag that needed repair or replacement shortly after, but they know better than to ask questions about his recovery. It’s part of the job here at the B.S.A.A. to know when not to.

The instructor shouts something encouraging at Piers. He doesn’t know or care what; he’s too pissed off. The leather splits and the chain clinks and the ceiling cracks and the mirror reflects exactly who Piers Nivans is when he’s like this.

He hates this part. The rage channels _him_ now.

 

oOo

 

“How was it?” A deep voice asks lightly from somewhere inside the house.

Chris is asking about his training session. Piers hangs up his jacket in the hall closet, kicking off his boots on the mat. His hair drips from the storm raging outside and he swipes a hand through it, looking tired. “Fine.”

Chris emerges from the kitchen and moves in close. Piers can feel his concern before he looks up. But Chris doesn’t say anything more. He simply wraps his partner in a possessive hug that Piers can’t help but melt into. He holds the older man tight, letting go of the last bit of lingering negativity he feels from the exercise. The virus seems to wither in the presence of Chris Redfield. Almost as if it is conscious of the fact that this man spent half of his life fighting to put an end to its very existence; Like it knows this man is to be reckoned with. Piers welcomes the peace found in his embrace. He wants to say something to him, but words fail him now and he doesn’t try, lest he mention his internal conflict and worry the Captain with things he couldn’t consciously fix.

Chris seems to sense his silent distress. He pulls away enough to kiss his forehead affectionately. Piers closes his eyes, leaning into the gesture and the reassuring wall of muscle that surrounds him again with a contented sigh.

“I ordered take out. Should be here soon.” Chris says softly.

A small approving sound comes from the sniper through the bigger man’s sweater, as Piers takes in his partner’s scent. Chris rubs his injured arm. Habit has him feeling for the usual fabric covering. When he doesn’t feel it he holds up Piers’ scarred hand. “You’re not wearing your wrap.” He says confused and impressed at the same time. Piers wiggles his fingers until they are entwined with Chris’ slightly larger ones. “I need to wash it.” He tells him, and then he’s leaning up to those deep brown eyes and kissing those surprisingly soft lips he’s come to know recently. Chris kisses back, pulling him towards the bedroom intuitively. Piers can feel a hint of suppressed urgency in the way their lips collide and it stirs the arousal Chris had built up in him earlier, reminding him of the unfinished business they had started that morning and were unable to conclude.

“I missed you.” Piers whispers between breathy lip locks.

“I can tell.” Chris’ voice is husky with want. Piers’ cock twitches to life at the sound of it and he reaches for the front of his own pants. Chris follows suit, tugging down his jeans when the back of his knees hit the end of the bed. Piers shoves him down onto it before he can release his legs from his jeans. Chris laughs. It’s low and velvet and laced with anticipation. He watches as Piers gives him a show. The younger soldier unbuttons and removes his beige over shirt and tosses it at him. Chris catches it in the face before tossing it to the floor with a grin. His legs are still in his pants and Piers steps on the denim so Chris can pull his feet out of them. Two cold hands slide up under Chris’ sweater and elicit a sharp breath out of him as they find two small nubs standing at attention beneath. The sweater joins the other clothes on the floor leaving both men in nothing but their briefs

“I did mention I ordered food, right?” Chris is leaning back on the bed as his young lover nibbles and kisses at his neck and jaw line eagerly.

“You did say that, yes.” Piers doesn’t seem to mind that they could be interrupted. He’s too busy sating his carnal need to press up against the man who has him always wanting more of him. Chris stops talking. He stops thinking too, grabbing two large handfuls of Piers’ ass with a hungry grunt and pulling him into a comfortable position above his now sizeable erection. _“Piers…”_ Chris says his name involuntarily and lifts up to take the other man’s lips again. Piers lets him, leaning down into the embrace and rutting slowly, purposefully, against his lover with his own hard on, driving them both to making light whimpering sounds into each other’s mouths.

 _“I need you….”_ Piers admits heatedly through quiet panting breaths. He wants to show Chris what he can do with lightly charged fingertips someday, but he bites back on the impulse this time.

Chris groans softly at his confession. He bites Piers’ bottom lip, holding it hostage between his teeth while he thrusts upward in anticipation, hands still at the younger man’s ass and taking full advantage of it. 

Piers knows exactly what to say. Chris knows exactly what to do.

And the virus is quiet.

  

oOo

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
